


Post Match: 2011/2012

by justkisa



Category: Football RPF, MCFC RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 18:19:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkisa/pseuds/justkisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unrelated post match snippets from the 2011/2012 Manchester City season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sunday 18 September 2011 | Barclays Premier League | Fulham 2 - 2 Man City

**Author's Note:**

> Characters/Pairing: David Silva/Sergio Agüero

_Sunday 18 September 2011 | Barclays Premier League | Fulham 2 - 2 Man City_

Pablo catches Kun’s wrist. “He doesn’t like--”

Kun shakes off Pablo’s hand and keeps going. He keeps going and doesn’t stop until he’s standing right behind Silva. He gets so close that the toes of his boots nudge against the insides of Silva’s heels. Silva’s head is bowed and he has his hands wrapped in the straps of his bag. If he twists the straps any tighter, Kun thinks, they’re going to snap right off.

Kun reaches out and puts his hand flat against Silva’s back, right in between Silva’s shoulder blades. He does it slowly, starts with the tips of his fingers and then carefully flattens his hand down. 

Kun waits. 

There are people moving all around them, talking and, even, laughing. Kun, though, he’s focused solely on Silva’s silent stillness--on the tense set of Silva’s shoulders and the tight fisting of Silva’s hands around those straps. 

Kun slides his hand up until the tips of his fingers are just barely brushing the back of Silva’s neck. Silva turns, so abruptly that he knocks Kun back a step, his mouth is open, like he’s about to say something. He doesn’t. He just stares at Kun for a moment, his eyes a flash fire of anger and frustration. Then he looks down and presses his lips together, flattening out his mouth into a tight, displeased line.

Kun thinks of the way Silva smiles at Kun when Kun scores. He thinks of the way Silva’s smile changes his whole face, the way it lights it up so brightly. He’d smiled at Kun like that earlier today and now--now this. 

Kun reaches out, slowly, so that Silva can see what he’s doing, and puts his hand on Silva’s shoulder. Silva lets him. “Next time we will do better.” Silva shrugs once. Just quickly jerks his shoulders up and down. Trying to shake Kun off, maybe, but Kun doesn’t let go. Silva’s expression doesn’t change. Kun reaches up and lightly touches Silva’s cheek, pressing the tip of his middle finger into the corner of Silva’s mouth. “We will.” 

Kun feels more than sees Silva’s smile. It’s there, just under his fingers, and then it’s gone. It’s fleeting and bitter and Kun doesn’t like the way it twists Silva’s face. “We had better,” Silva says flatly. 

They stare at each other for a long, slow moment, then, Silva reaches up and and runs his fingers along the back of Kun’s hand, lightly tracing them between the bones of Kun’s hand. It’s like a shiver down Kun’s spine, Silva’s touch, like his whole body’s just been jolted awake. Silva turns his head slightly and his mouth presses, soft and warm, against the tips of Kun’s fingers. Then Silva turns back and Kun lets his hand fall away. “Next time,” Silva says.


	2. Saturday 1 October 2011 | Barclays Premier League | Blackburn 0 - 4 Man City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nasri and Silva are just trying to figure each other out.

_Saturday 1 October 2011 | Barclays Premier League | Blackburn 0 - 4 Man City_

As Samir makes his way off the pitch, someone comes up alongside him and puts his arm around Samir’s shoulders. Samir looks over expecting to see Yaya or Edin or maybe Gaël. Instead it’s Silva. For a few steps, Silva doesn’t say anything, he just walks with Samir. Then, as they take their third step together, Silva says, “Congratulations for your first goal.” There’s the barest trace of hesitance in his voice like that’s not what he really wants to say to Samir.

“Thank you,” Samir says and waits.

Samir doesn’t have to wait long. “Today,” Silva says. He stops and pulls Samir around so that they’re facing each other. Samir can’t begin to guess what Silva’s going to say next. Silva’s expression doesn’t give anything away. “Today,” Silva says again, reaching out and wrapping his hand loosely around Samir’s wrist, “you and I, we--it was--was very good, no? We must--” He pauses for a moment and stares intently at Samir. “--must have more, like this, you and I, yes?” Samir flinches. Silva tightens his grip on Samir’s wrist.

Samir knows why Silva says it. They haven’t had the connection everyone expected them to have. Not for them the instant, sparkling connection that Silva’s had with Agüero. Instead they start and stop. They grind along together trying to figure each other out. Samir knows it. Silva knows it. Samir just never imagined that Silva would _actually_ say anything about it. But here Silva is, fearlessly staring Samir down, holding Samir in place, and waiting for Samir to say something. Samir doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what Silva wants to hear.

Off the pitch, on the pitch, it doesn’t matter, Samir can’t quite figure Silva out.

Sometimes, on the pitch, they produce moments of football so amazing Samir can barely believe they’re real. Startling moments of perfect clarity when they stop trying and just play and everything works. But the moments never seem to last. They never turn into anything more. In the next moment, they’re in each other’s way. They misread each other’s passes. They stumble around in each other’s space. They don’t anticipate each other’s movements. Sometimes it feels like those shining, perfect moments never happened.

But today--today they created more than a moment. Today felt like the start of something. Not a perfect start, maybe, but still a start. Maybe that’s all they need. A starting point.

Samir reaches out and puts his hand on Silva’s shoulder. He grips it tight, tries to hold onto this feeling--this fledgling start of something more--by holding onto Silva. He holds on so tight that his nails dig hard into Silva’s skin. Silva doesn’t flinch. “We will,” Samir says, putting as much conviction--as much belief--as he can into his voice, “We will.”

Silva smiles. It’s a beautiful smile with a shimmering, knife-sharp edge. Silva stares straight into Samir’s eyes and says with terrifying certainty, “Yes.” He squeezes Samir’s wrist so tightly that it hurts but all Samir wants is for Silva to squeeze harder. Hard enough to leave marks on Samir’s skin. “Yes we will.” It sounds like a promise. Samir wishes he knew Silva well enough to know whether or not Silva keeps his promises.


	3. Saturday 15 October 2011 | Barclays Premier League | Man City 4 - 1 Aston Villa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe misses Shay. There are cuddles. That's all really.

_Saturday 15 October 2011 | Barclays Premier League | Man City 4 - 1 Aston Villa_

Shay can see Joe coming. Granted Joe’s pretty hard to miss. Shay steels himself for the inevitable banter. He summons as much good humor as he can manage and says, “Hey, Harty.” To Shay’s surprise, Joe doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even smile. He just splays one hand wide across Shay’s chest and backs Shay up into the wall. “Harty?” Shay says softly. He’s not quite sure what’s going on here. Then Joe reaches down and starts to tug on Shay’s jersey and Shay thinks, _of course_. 

Shay reaches down and squeezes Joe’s hands. “I’m fine, Joe. Honest.” Joe pushes Shay’s hands away. His face is set in familiar determined lines. Shay should have known Joe wouldn’t be deterred that easily. “Really Joe,” Shay starts to say, “I’m--” but Joe already has Shay’s jersey pushed up and is frowning down at the scrapes on Shay’s chest.

“Joe,” Shay sighs, “it’s--” Joe reaches out and Shay braces himself because gentleness is not really Joe’s best thing. 

Joe’s touch, though, is feather light as he slowly traces each mark with careful deliberateness. “Shay,” He says quietly without looking up, “Shay...” 

“I’m fine,” Shay repeats, “really.” 

Joe peeks up at him and smiles a little before pushing hard against the worst of the scrapes. Shay can’t stop himself from flinching. “Liar,” Joe says with soft affection and gently skims his fingers along the scrape. He pulls Shay’s jersey back down and wraps Shay up in smothering but careful hug. 

Shay pulls Joe close and says into Joe’s ear, “I really am fine.” 

Joe squeezes Shay a little harder and says again, “Liar.” Shay just pats Joe’s back and doesn’t say anything mostly because it’s true. Joe drops his head and buries his face in Shay’s neck. “Miss you,” he mumbles, his mouth hot against Shay’s skin, “miss you.” 

Shay fists his hands in Joe’s jersey and pulls him closer. “Of course you do,” he says lightly, “How could you not?” He’s hoping it’ll get Joe to lift his head. Maybe get him to smile. Joe just tightens his arms around Shay pressing them together hard enough that Shay’s chest hurts. “Joe. Hey! Joey--” 

That gets Joe’s attention and he immediately lets Shay go. “Shit. Sorry. God. M’sorry.” He looks a bit panicked. 

Shay reaches up and pats Joe’s cheek. “It’s okay,” he says, pulling the side of Joe’s mouth up, “smile, all right? Everything’s fine.” 

Joe swats Shay’s hand away and wrinkles his nose a bit. “Sure. Yeah. Okay.” He doesn’t smile though he just reaches out and pulls Shay close again. “Really do miss you,” he says quietly in Shay’s ear with a youthful uncertainty that Shay thought had been washed away by the successes of last season. 

Shay tugs on Joe’s jersey. “You’re doing just fine without me.” 

“S’not the same,” Joe mumbles. 

“No.” Shay says, gently pushing Joe away, “It’s not.”

“I,” Joe says. There’s such regret in his voice and Shay can’t deal with it. Not now “I know--” 

Shay cuts him off, “Don’t. Okay.” Joe frowns a bit but he doesn’t say anything. He just pats clumsily at Shay’s shoulders. “Just,” Shay says, “just say hello to all the lads for me, will you?” 

Joe squeezes Shay’s shoulders. “Come say hello yourself. They’d love to see you. You know that.” 

Shay thinks about what the dressing room will be like. Thinks of how it’ll be humming with the excitement from the win. He can picture it so perfectly in his head. But it’s not for him. Not anymore. And, right now, it’s the last place he wants to be. He pats Joe’s side. “Not today.” Joe looks like he wants to protest but he doesn’t. “See you around,” Shay says, “okay?”

“Yeah,” Joe says softly. Shay moves away and Joe’s hands slide off his shoulders. “See you around.”


	4. Tuesday 18 October 2011 | UEFA Champions League | Man City 2 - 1 Villarreal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because just look at [them](http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ltb0j9OByW1qcwz44.gif).

_Tuesday 18 October 2011 | UEFA Champions League | Man City 2 - 1 Villarreal_

[ ](http://s1203.photobucket.com/albums/bb396/justkisa/?action=view&current=ds_pz_ka_v_villareal_10_18_11edited.jpg)

Pablo is behind Kun his arm splayed across Kun’s chest. He’s talking into Kun’s ear and pushing hard against Kun’s back. Kun barely notices, though, because Silva’s on his knees in front of Kun pulling at Kun's shorts with frantic hands. Silva’s still dressed for the game--still wearing his boots. Kun reaches out and fists his hand in Silva’s hair. It’s wet with rain and sweat and it slips through Kun’s fingers. Kun just grips it tighter. He twists his fingers up in it and tugs Silva closer. Silva looks up and smiles--challenge and promise all at once. “Harder,” Silva says. Kun obeys and pulls hard on Silva’s hair. Silva makes a low, rough, wanting sound and goes back to working on Kun’s shorts.

“Harder.” Pablo says roughly, scraping his teeth along Kun’s throat, “Harder, he can take it.” Kun puts his other hand on Silva’s head and threads his fingers through Silva’s hair. “Go on,” Pablo says, scrabbling his hand across Kun’s chest and roughly tweaking Kun’s nipple through his jersey, “Kun, go on, he wants--” Kun twists his fingers and pulls Silva’s hair as hard as he can. Silva shudders and his eyes flutter closed. He moans and the rough and desperate sound of it is like a wash of heat across Kun’s skin. 

Silva opens his eyes and goes back to tugging at Kun’s shorts. In Silva’s haste to undress Kun, his touch is clumsy and fumbling. His fingers slide waywardly along Kun’s hip and his nails scrape at Kun’s skin. Kun just shivers at the raw, burning sting of the scratches. “Look at him.” Pablo says, rubbing against Kun, “Look at how he wants you.” Kun pushes back against Pablo. He enjoys the feel of Pablo, warm and solid, against his back. Pablo tightens his arm around Kun’s chest and grinds against Kun’s ass. “Look at him,” Pablo demands. 

There’s no where else Kun’s going to look. Not when Silva’s finally gotten Kun’s shorts down. Not when Silva’s looking up at Kun like he wants to devour him whole. Silva reaches up and Kun’s hips stutter forward in anticipation of Silva’s touch. Pablo hauls Kun back. “No,” Pablo says into Kun’s ear, “just his mouth.” Silva pauses for a moment his hand still raised. Then Silva sits back on his heels, opens his mouth, and slowly--deliberately--puts both of his hands behind his back. “Take what you want, go on,” Pablo says, “he wants you to. Look at him waiting. Are you going to keep him waiting?” 

“Please.” Silva says, “Please.” He doesn’t move. He just kneels there with his wrists crossed behind his back and waits. Kun twists Silva’s hair in his hands. “ _Please_. Harder--you can--please Kun, I _want_ \--” Kun had thought to go slowly. To savor the sight of Silva’s mouth sliding down his cock. He was going to tease them both by drawing it out but Silva’s blatantly wanton pleading shatters what’s left of his patience and control so he just _takes_ what Silva’s offering. He just wraps his hands tight in Silva’s hair, yanks Silva forward, and pushes Silva all the way down his cock. 

Silva almost loses his balance but his hands stay behind his back. He melts forward into the move, totally pliant under Kun’s hands, like he’s giving himself completely over to Kun’s control. His mouth, it feels so _good_ , and Kun wants to hold him there forever. To keep him there on his knees, his mouth full of Kun’s cock, for as long as Kun wants. “My God,” Pablo breathes and pushes against Kun. Kun can feel Pablo’s hard cock pressing against his ass. That just makes everything even better. To have Silva in front of him and Pablo behind him. Kun can't imagine anything better. “My God, look at him. You have to,” Pablo says harshly, rubbing restlessly against Kun, “you have to-- _Kun_ \--” his voice breaks, “--give him, you--” Kun pulls Silva off his cock. Silva gasps for air and moves his mouth like he’s going to speak. Kun doesn’t give him a chance he just pushes him straight back down. “God.” Pablo sighs, “Just like that.” Kun goes more slowly this time. Not too slow, though, because Kun’s desperate to see Silva take the whole thing again. He loves the way Silva looks when he takes all of Kun’s cock. Loves the wet, guttural sucking sound of it. Pablo presses his mouth to Kun’s throat and mumbles, “God, my God.” 

Kun comes too fast. He’s just barely started and he comes gasping out Silva’s name as he does. Silva swallows but he doesn’t catch it all and come leaks out of the side of his mouth and runs down the side of his chin. “Fuck.” Pablo says in Kun’s ear, pulling Kun back against him and grinding hard against Kun, “Fuck, look--” 

Kun catches his breath then he pulls slowly--regretfully--out of Silva’s mouth. Silva pants and gasps for air but he doesn’t move. He leaves his hands behind his back and just stares up at Kun. Kun has to force himself to unclench his fingers and untangle them from Silva’s hair. He doesn’t want to. He wants nothing more than to keep Silva in his grasp--under his control. He slowly removes his hands. He smoothes down Silva’s hair trying to coax the wayward strands into submission. Pablo’s gone still behind him like he’s waiting to see what Kun will do next. Kun runs his fingers across Silva’s mouth then down Silva’s chin rubbing his come into Silva’s skin. Silva gasps and shudders under Kun’s fingers. Pablo’s arm goes tight across Kun’s chest and his harsh intake of breath is loud in Kun’s ear. “You want,” Kun says slowly, “you want Pablo too, don’t you?” 

“Please,” Silva says, his voice rough and totally wrecked, “please.” 

“Okay,” Kun says, running his fingers back across Silva’s mouth, “Okay.” Silva smiles and Kun traces Silva’s smile, pressing his finger into the bow of Silva’s upper lip. “Okay,” Kun says again. 

Pablo lets Kun go and almost immediately Kun misses the warmth and solidity of Pablo against his back. It’s worth giving up, though, because now he can watch Pablo with Silva. Pablo runs his hand over Silva’s hair. “Hello,” Pablo says with a smile. Silva smiles back and Pablo taps Silva’s mouth with his fingers. “Hello.” Pablo fists his hand in Silva’s hair and roughly tips Silva’s face up. 

Pablo steps closer to Silva. With his free hand, he pushes his shorts down just enough to free his cock. He fists his cock and just nudges the head of it against Silva’s mouth. Silva sighs and shudders and says brokenly, “Pablo, please. _Please._ ” 

Pablo pulls Silva away from his cock and Kun can’t think why but then Pablo says, “Again. Ask me again.” _Oh_ , Kun thinks, _oh_. 

Silva licks his lips and Kun can see Pablo tighten his hand in Silva’s hair. “Please, Pablo, please.” Kun understands exactly why Pablo wants to hear that again. Silva’s voice is wrecked and low and the way he says please, well, if Kun could, he’d get hard just listening to Silva beg. “Please,” Silva says again. Pablo doesn’t say anything he just puts his other hand on Silva’s head and pulls Silva forward. 

Pablo’s rougher with Silva than Kun had dared to be. Pablo stops after a moment and runs his hand slowly down Silva’s cheek. “Okay?” he asks softly. 

Kun is amazed when Silva turns his face into Pablo’s hand and says desperately, “More, more Pablo, _please_ , I need, Pablo, _please._ ” 

Pablo closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them and starts again, he’s even rougher with Silva. He barely allows Silva time to breath. He just ruthlessly and completely uses Silva’s mouth. It’s over fast and Pablo comes panting Silva’s name. Silva doesn’t miss anything this time. Pablo lets Silva go immediately and Silva rocks back on his heels. His chest heaves as he audibly gasps for air. His hands are still behind his back. Finally Pablo says, “Okay,” and holds out his hand. 

Silva stays perfectly still for a moment then he uncrosses his wrists and reaches up to take Pablo’s hand. Pablo helps Silva up off the floor and hauls him close. “Oh,” Pablo says, surprise and delight clear in his voice, “Oh, fuck, David, you are--” _Beautiful_ Kun thinks as he watches Pablo frame Silva’s face in his hands and kiss him. Slowly at first and then more desperately. 

When Pablo pulls out of the kiss, he hooks one arm around Silva’s neck and smiles at Kun over Silva’s shoulder. Kun can see the welcome--the invitation--in that smile and he steps forward pressing close to Silva’s side. Silva turns towards him and wraps his arm around Kun’s neck. He’s smiling widely at Kun and he looks so happy that Kun can’t help but kiss him. He leans in and just presses his mouth against Silva’s smile. Silva tastes like Pablo and salt and the rain. Pablo wraps his arm around Kun’s shoulders and Kun smiles into the kiss. Silva pulls away and tucks his face into Pablo’s neck. 

“What about--” Kun runs his hands down Silva’s side, sliding one hand along Silva’s waistband and down. Silva’s shorts are damp. It takes Kun a second to realize that it’s not from the rain, that it’s-- “Oh.” Kun says, startled, “Oh.” Silva lifts his head from Pablo’s neck and gives Kun a look that’s half embarrassment and half brazen satisfaction. 

“You,” Kun stutters, “really? You--just from--” Silva ducks his head and shrugs. And Kun’s not sure what to say. He--he wants to see that. Next time he wants to watch. He wants to watch Silva come just from sucking Pablo’s cock--just from Pablo fucking his face. “That’s--” Kun reaches out and tips Silva’s chin up. “Amazing.” Silva starts to smile but Kun kisses him before he can finish. Kun licks his way into Silva’s mouth. Silva moans opening his mouth under Kun’s. Kun tastes himself inside Silva’s mouth--Pablo too. It’s perfect. When Kun finally pulls away, he looks towards Pablo. Pablo’s smiling. “He,” Kun says, “He’s--he’s--” Kun can’t get the right words out. He’s _beautiful_ , Kun thinks, _beautiful_ and _ours_. “He’s--” 

Pablo leans in and presses a firm kiss to Kun’s mouth. “Yes.” Pablo says, like he knows just what Kun’s thinking, “Yes he is,” and he and Silva both pull Kun close.


	5. Sunday 23 October 2011 | Barclays Premier League | Man Utd 1 - 6 Man City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An almost orgy, or, at least, snippets of one, from multiple perspectives.

_Sunday 23 October 2011 | Barclays Premier League | Man Utd 1 - 6 Man City_

_Kun_

Kun doesn’t think before he acts. Doesn’t think about where they are--about who’s watching. He doesn’t care. He just sees David’s smile and thinks, that’s for me-- _he’s for me_ \--and leans forward. Once he puts his mouth to David’s, he wants to do this--to kiss David--this and nothing but this until neither of them can breathe. The curve--the give--of David’s mouth under his--it’s everything he’d imagined and more besides. Then Hart hollers something. Kun would just ignore him but David laughs and pulls away. Kun reaches out and grabs David’s jersey dragging him back. David’s still laughing. “What?” Kun asks. 

David smiles and presses closer to Kun. “He thinks you can do better.” He slides his hands up Kun’s chest and wraps his arms around Kun’s neck. He tilts his head to one side, gives Kun a smile that’s a brilliant beautiful challenge, and says, “Can you?” 

There’s only way to answer that and it’s not with words. Kun wraps his arm around David’s waist and hauls David close. David tips his head back and laughs. Kun reaches up, threads his fingers through David’s hair and pulls David forward into a kiss. David’s still laughing. It leaves his mouth open under Kun’s allowing Kun to push his tongue into David’s mouth. David stops laughing and makes low, purring sound deep in his throat. Kun fists his hand in David’s hair and presses deeper with the kiss. He’s rewarded with a stuttering roll of David’s hips against his. Kun pulls back and says,“Well?” The way David leans forward chasing the kiss is all the answer Kun really needs. 

Hart yells something else. David doesn’t laugh this time. He ducks his head and, to Kun’s amazement, blushes. “David?” Kun says quietly, stroking his hand down through David’s hair. He rests his hand on the curve of David’s neck. “What?”

David peeks up at Kun. “He--” He stops. He raises his head and stares straight at Kun. “He--he wants to see more than a kiss.” 

“And you,” Kun says without thinking, “you want that?” 

David smiles fleetingly and kisses Kun. Just lightly feathers his mouth across Kun’s. He licks at Kun’s mouth, not trying to open it, just sliding his tongue along Kun’s lips. He murmurs against Kun’s mouth, “Whatever you want, that’s what I want.” 

“They--” Kun starts. “--everyone, they’re--they’re watching-- do you want--” Silva shrugs and pulls back a little. Kun tightens his arm around David’s waist keeping him close. “I don’t care,” Kun blurts, “if you don’t.” 

“I don’t,” Silva says, kissing Kun again, before adding with a disarming directness that leaves Kun breathless, “I just want you.” 

“Okay,” Kun says and steps back. He glances around. He doesn’t think there’s anyone in the dressing room that isn’t staring at them. Balotelli’s the closest, standing just behind David and staring right at Kun. That much focused attention--Balotelli’s--the rest of their teammates--it’s dizzying. 

Kun looks back at David. David’s just standing there. Just waiting for Kun. Despite their audience, despite what Kun’s just agreed to do, there’s a part of him that wants to keep David all to himself. Today, though, that just doesn’t seem fair. Not when they’re standing here in the middle of all their teammates with the electrifying excitement from the game, from their win--their beautiful, beautiful win--a humming, palpable force in the air. As much as Kun looks at David and thinks, _mine_ , today that just can’t be. Today Silva is utterly and undeniably _theirs_ and Kun, well, he can’t possibly take that away from them. 

Kun glances over David’s shoulder and catches Balotelli’s eye. Balotelli smiles. Kun hadn’t thought about anyone else touching David. Being watched, that’s one thing but having other people’s hands on David--that’s another. But, as Kun looks at Balotelli stare at David, he remembers Balotelli on the pitch, sparkling and incandescently brilliant, and he thinks, just maybe, he’d like to see Balotelli’s hands on David. “Come here,” Kun says impulsively. He says it in Italian. Balotelli doesn’t move. “Come here,” Kun says again, “Come here and help me with him.” Balotelli still doesn’t move. Kun doesn’t know what else to say. Doesn’t know how to persuade Balotelli. 

David smiles at Kun then he turns toward Balotelli and holds out his hand. “Mario, please,” David says in English, “please come here.” Balotelli ducks his head and smiles almost bashfully at David. “Please,” David says quietly, “won’t you?” Balotelli is still for a long moment, just staring at David’s outstretched hand and, just when Kun’s sure that Balotelli’s going to refuse, Balotelli reaches out and takes David’s hand. David tugs him close and turns back towards Kun. “Tell him,” David says, switching back to Spanish, “tell him what you want him to do.” He’s still holding Balotelli’s hand.

Kun looks up at Balotelli. Balotelli meets Kun’s gaze head on. The bashfulness of a moment ago gone completely. “You,” Kun says, sticking with Italian, “you’ll hold him still for me?” 

Balotelli nods once. David drops Balotelli’s hand and Balotelli tentatively puts his hands on David’s hips. David leans back, relaxing into Balotelli’s chest, effectively forcing Balotelli to switch his hold, to make it more secure. Balotelli responds by wrapping his arms around David and pulling David back against him. David tips his head back, resting it on Balotelli’s shoulder, and smiles up at Balotelli. Balotelli stares down at David and smiles back. His smile is somewhere between awed and disbelieving. Then Balotelli looks up and says, his smile gone, “I have him.” 

“Just,” Kun says slowly, “just hold him, okay?” 

David lifts his head from Balotelli’s shoulder and smiles at Kun. “What--” Kun steps closer and David stops talking. David reaches out as if to touch Kun but Kun pushes his hand away. Kun gets down on his knees. David and Balotelli both gasp. They’re not the only ones. The whole room buzzes with sound. It’s a noisy and immediate reminder of their audience. Kun doesn’t look around, though, he doesn’t look anywhere but at David. David’s all that matters. Kun licks his lips and says, “I want to suck you. Do you think they’d like to see that? To see me suck your cook?” 

David runs his hand over Kun’s head. “Please,” is all David says, “please.” 

“I think they will,” Kun says as he starts to work David’s shorts down. Balotelli helps him a bit, working the fabric down over David’s hips. “I think they’ll like it very much.” Kun doesn’t bother to pull David’s shorts down all the way. He’s not interested in undressing David, not now, he just wants to get to David’s cock.

Kun thinks to go slowly. That’s how he starts. He just slowly slides his mouth down David’s cock. But everyone starts to talk--to shout--and, more importantly, David fists his hand in Kun’s hair and starts to beg. In the face of all of that, Kun abandons restraint and any attempt at subtlety and just goes for it. It’s worth it. David’s voice breaks and his begging rapidly descends into incoherence. Kun loves it. He loves how utterly destroyed David sounds--loves how David pushes forward, straining against Balotelli’s grip, as he tries to push further into Kun’s mouth. 

Kun doesn’t try for a rhythm he just tries to get as much of David’s cock as he can into his mouth. His mouth and chin get wet with spit and pre-come and he gags more than once. But it doesn’t matter because David pulls his hair (hard enough to hurt) and says, “Kun, Kun, _please_ ,” and Kun loves the way he sounds. He doesn’t care about anything but making David sound just like he did right then. He lets David pull him back down onto David’s cock, just opens his mouth and lets David force him down. He gags again but David doesn’t stop and Kun doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about anything but having David’s cock in his mouth--doesn’t care about anything but making David feel good. “Oh, fuck, Kun, God look at--” David gasps, pulling Kun back off. 

Kun makes a low protesting sound. He wants to have his mouth back on David’s cock. Kun leans back in. “Okay,” David says, panting, “okay, Kun, you want to--more--okay--” Kun sucks hard on the head of David’s cock. “Fuck.” David makes a harsh, shuddery gasping sound. “ _Kun, Kun_ , please, more.” Kun pushes forward--gives David more. He pushes all the way down until his nose is pressed to David’s belly. David clumsily touches Kun’s face, pushing his fingers against the corner of Kun’s mouth. “You--you are--look at you--” Kun stays there until the world starts to blur--until he can’t breathe. When he finally pulls away, he has to gasp for air. His throat is scraped raw and he can’t get enough air fast enough. David gently strokes Kun’s hair and says softly, “Kun, are you--it’s--you don’t--” 

“I,” Kun manages to say, “I want to, David, please-- _please_ let me.” 

David runs his fingers along Kun’s forehead and down Kun’s cheek. “Okay,” he says, “just,” he presses his fingers against Kun’s mouth, “maybe, you want some help? Mario, he,” he touches Balotelli’s hand, drawing it down his stomach, “maybe he could?” 

Kun tries to imagine it, Balotelli’s hand wrapped around David’s cock, while he sucks David. “Okay,” he says, “if he wants.” 

David doesn’t really seem to give Balotelli a choice. He just takes Balotelli’s hand and wraps it around his cock. Kun just watches for a moment, just stares as Balotelli slowly--almost tentatively--strokes his hand up and down David’s cock. David tips his head back against Balotelli’s shoulder and pushes his hips up like he’s seeking more of Balotelli’s touch. “Okay?” Balotelli says and it takes Kun a second to realize that Balotelli’s talking to him. 

“Okay,” Kun says, “okay.” He leans in and takes David’s cock back into his mouth, sliding down until his mouth reaches Balotelli’s fingers. David pushes his hips forward and Kun’s mouth slides down over Balotelli’s fingers. 

David makes a low, pleading sound and Balotelli dips his head and kisses him. It’s a desperate, messy looking kiss. Kun likes the look of them together. He pulls back from David’s cock and just watches them for a moment. David pulls away and looks down at Kun. He tugs at Kun’s hair. “Kun, _please_ , come on--” Kun gives him what he wants. 

It’s different, sucking David, as Balotelli works his hand on David’s cock. At first, they just get in each other’s way but, urged on by David’s pleading, they work it out. And it’s worth it, working it out, sharing David, because the way David’d sounded before when Kun’d had his mouth on him is nothing compared to the raw, desperation in his voice now. He’s not even making sense anymore, just repeating Kun’s name and Balotelli’s too, over and over. He comes without warning, turning his face into Balotelli’s neck and spilling into Kun’s mouth. Kun swallows as best he can. 

Kun sits back on his heels and lets David’s cock slide out of his mouth. David still has his face tucked into Balotelli’s neck. Balotelli says something to him, too quiet for Kun to hear, and David turns his head. He smiles down at Kun and clumsily pats Kun’s cheek. Kun turns his face into David’s palm and presses a kiss just under David’s thumb. 

“You,” David stammers, “Oh, Kun, you are--” Then he turns to Balotelli and presses a kiss to Balotelli’s chin. “And you--you too, my God--” He sounds dazed--looks dazed. He pats at Kun’s shoulder. “That was, oh God, it was--” He rests his hand on Kun’s shoulder. “Would you,” he says, pressing his thumb against Kun’s collarbone, “for Mario? Would you?” 

Kun glances at Balotelli. Balotelli gives him a tentative smile. “I--” 

“You don’t,” David says, interrupting,“if you don’t want to, you don’t have to.” 

Kun thinks of the way they’d look together as they’d kissed. Of the way he and Balotelli had driven David crazy together. “If you want,” Kun says, stumbling over the words, “I’ll do it, I want to, if you want me to.” 

David smiles and says, “I do.” 

Kun smiles back. “Okay.” 

David turns in Balotelli’s arms, looking up at him and saying in his clumsy, fractured Italian, “you do want, yes?” 

Kun watches them and waits for Balotelli’s answer. He’s aware, for the first time since he put his mouth on David’s cock, of the noise of the dressing room around them, of the fact that, yes, they’d just done all that in front of an audience, in front of all their teammates. It barely registers. All his attention is on David and Balotelli. “Okay,” Balotelli says, “okay, yes.” 

David leans up, pushing up onto his toes, and kisses Balotelli. Just lightly brushes his mouth over Balotelli’s before dropping back onto his heels and moving to Balotelli’s side. He smiles down at Kun. “Come on then.” 

Kun shuffles forward on his knees, stopping just in front of Balotelli. He reaches up to push Balotelli’s shorts down but Balotelli beats him to it. Balotelli is almost unnaturally still under Kun’s mouth. He just stands there and lets Kun suck him. He doesn’t touch Kun. Not once. And he doesn’t say anything. Kun can hear him gasp and pant but he doesn’t say anything. David does enough talking--and touching--for the both of them. He pets Kun’s hair the whole time and and tells Kun how pretty he looks sucking Balotelli’s cock. When Balotelli, finally says something, it’s just, “I’m--Agüero--” and then he comes. David pushes Kun down on Balotelli’s cock as Balotelli comes forcing Kun to swallow. Kun chokes a bit but he manages it. 

David pulls Kun off of Balotelli’s cock and the two of them pull Kun up off the ground and press him in between them. It’s crazy and frantic and fumbling but _oh so, so good._ They pull his jersey up and push his shorts down. Kun can’t keep track of whose hands are where. Can’t figure out who he should beg for more. It’s David, though, in front of him. It’s David he’s kissing when he finally comes. They hold him tight after that--pull him back up when his knees buckle. It’s the best place he’s ever been, he thinks dazedly, there between the two of them. 

Kun’s still trying to steady himself--still trying to convince himself that he can stand on his own again--when Balotelli leans in, kisses Kun’s cheek and says softly and almost solemnly, “Thank you.” Balotelli leans over Kun’s shoulder and kisses David square on the mouth and then, just like that, he steps away. 

It’s harder, Kun quickly finds out, to stay upright without Balotelli, steady and solid against his back, and he stumbles forward into David. David puts his hands on Kun’s hips and steadies him. He laughs a little and smiles brightly at Kun. Kun doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look happier. They’ve got to win something, Kun thinks, to win everything, just so he can see David look like this again. Hart yells something and David laughs some more. “What?” Kun asks, “What now?” 

David pulls Kun closer. “He says you should kiss me and--” Kun interrupts him with a kiss. The kiss is greeted with a roar of whistles and shouts. Kun deepens the kiss--gives them a show--and the roar of sound gets louder. When Kun finally pulls back, David adds, laughing, “and, if you don’t--” 

Kun kisses David again. “If I don’t, what?“

David smiles--all mischief--and says, “Then he will.” 

“Oh?” Kun says. David nods. “No,” Kun says, looking over David’s shoulder at Hart. Hart blows him a kiss. “No, I don’t think so.” 

David smiles. “Then kiss me.” Kun does. 

 

_Edin_

Agüero, Edin thinks, is never going to let go of Silva. He has had Silva tucked under his arm since, well, since Edin arrived in the dressing room. People keep coming up to them. They hug Silva, ruffle his hair, smack his ass. They come up to Agüero too, of course, but nothing dislodges Agüero from Silva’s side. He just holds Silva close. He keeps turning to Silva--smiling at him. He looks at Silva like Silva’s something amazing, like he’s never seen anything like Silva before. Edin can’t exactly blame him. Edin’s certainly never seen anything like Silva before. For his part, Silva seems content to let Agüero hold onto him. He just smiles right back at Agüero and cuddles close to Agüero’s side. 

Watching the two of them together makes Edin want-- He looks around the dressing room, searching for Aleks. He doesn’t see him. He could have sworn Aleks was just there, that he’d just seen him. Someone bumps hard into his back. “Those two,” Aleks says laughing, wrapping his arms around Edin’s waist, “my God.” Edin leans back against Aleks, just relaxes into Aleks chest. Aleks pulls him closer and says into Edin’s ear, “Just look at them, _my God_.” Edin’s about to ask just what Aleks means when Agüero answers Silva’s latest smile with a kiss. _Oh_ , Edin thinks, _of course_. “Look at that,” Aleks murmurs, “can you believe it?” Edin just shakes his head. 

“Oi, Agüero,” Joe calls, “you can do better than that, can’t you?” It makes the whole dressing room laugh, except, maybe, Agüero. Silva pulls out of the kiss and he and Agüero have a short conversation that ends in another, more spectacular kiss. 

Edin turns toward Aleks, “Should they?” 

Aleks just laughs. “Who cares, just look at them, they’re--” 

Whatever Aleks was going to say is cut off when Joe hollers, “Oh, come on, just a kiss? What else you got, huh Agüero? I want to see something a little more exciting.” Joe is, Edin’s fairly certain, just being himself. Loud and obnoxious and making everything into a joke. But, in just a few moments, it all goes crazy. Edin doesn’t actually understand what’s going on until Agüero turns to Mario and says something and Aleks gasps behind him.

“What?” Edin asks. 

“He,” Aleks sounds completely shocked, “he’s asking Mario for help.” 

“Help with what?” Edin asks. He’s completely bewildered. 

“With Silva.” 

“What--” Edin starts to say and then Silva reaches out his hand and Mario takes it and Edin doesn’t know what to say, because surely they’re not? But they are. Mario pulls Silva close and then--then Agüero gets down on his knees. 

“Fuck,” Aleks says and pulls Edin hard against him, “fuck, are they--” People start talking all at once. Edin can’t do anything but stare. Agüero’s actually going to-- Edin can’t really believe it but it’s actually happening. 

“Aleks?” he says disbelievingly, “Are they really?” 

“Yes,” Aleks says, “yes they are.” They really are. Agüero has Silva’s shorts pulled down and he’s leaning in and putting his mouth on Silva’s cock. 

“God,” Aleks says in Edin’s ear, “Look at him, with his mouth all over Silva’s cock.” Edin doesn’t know how anyone can look anywhere else. It’s transfixing. Silva tucked in Mario’s arms, straining against his grip, as Agüero slowly slides his mouth down Silva’s cock. 

“I--” 

Aleks interrupts, “He’s so pretty, isn’t he? Down there on his knees. Would you like his mouth on your cock, Edin? Pretty little cocksucker down on his knees for you?” 

“I--” Edin tries again. He can hear Silva pleading brokenly with Agüero. Edin can’t understand it, of course, but it doesn’t matter, not when Aleks is whispering in his ear. Not when Aleks is pulling him close and rubbing up against him. “I--Aleks--” 

Aleks laughs and slides his hand up under Edin’s jersey. “I think you would. I think you’d like it, think you’d put your hand in his hair and push him down, make him take everything.” 

“Aleks--” Mario’s kissing Silva now, desperate and sloppy, Silva’s head tipped back against Mario’s shoulder. Just past them, Edin can see Joe and Micah. Joe’s sitting down, his head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed. Micah’s working his hand up and down Joe’s cock. Joe’s beautiful, Edin notes absently, his face shining with sweat as he lifts his hips, pushing his cock through Micah’s fist. 

“Or maybe,” Aleks says, “maybe, it’s Joe you like. Do you think he’d put his hands on you? His mouth?” Aleks scraps his nails against Edin’s stomach. “ _Hmm_ , Edin? Tell me, what do you want?” 

Edin can’t take anymore, can’t watch anymore. He turns, pushes his way around in Aleks arms until they’re face to face. “Aleks--” 

“What do you want Edin? _Hmm_?” Aleks asks, running his hand up Edin’s side, “What do you want?” Edin looks down at Aleks’ mouth. Aleks laughs. “I’m not getting down on my knees for you, not here.” 

“Aleks,” Edin gasps, “Aleks, please.” 

“ _Shh_ ,” Aleks says and kisses Edin with devastating thoroughness. “ _Shh_ , that doesn’t mean,” he says, drawing his hand down Edin’s side, “that I won’t--” He cups Edin’s cock, rubbing Edin roughly through Edin’s shorts. Edin pushes forward into Aleks’ hand. “--won’t give you other things. That I’ll leave you wanting.” 

“Aleks,” Edin pants, too on edge for coherence, “Aleks, please, please, I want--” 

“Okay,” Aleks says between hard, biting kisses, “okay.” He pushes Edin’s shorts down and wraps his hand around Edin’s cock. “There, see, Edin? See, I’ve got you, see?” 

“Aleks--” Aleks is moving his hand fast and hard. His hand is hot, his palm slick with sweat and not much else and the friction is almost too dry---almost too much--but Edin doesn’t care. “Aleks, _please_.” 

“Hush.” Aleks says, “Kiss me, okay? I want you to kiss me while I make you come for me. Will you do that?” he asks squeezing Edin’s cock, “Will you kiss me?” 

_Always_ , Edin thinks, _always_. He leans forward and clumsily presses his mouth to Aleks’. He brings his hands up, clutches Aleks’ shoulders, and just kisses and kisses him. It’s open and wet and sloppy and all teeth. He bites down hard on Aleks’ lower lip and tastes blood. He pulls away. “Sorry.” 

“No.” Aleks gasps, “No, keep going,” then he twists his hand and it’s Edin’s turn to gasp. “More,” Aleks demands, “Edin, _Edin_ please.” Edin swallows Aleks’ pleading, licking at the split in Aleks’ lip, soothing it, or trying. Aleks moans deep in his throat and Edin presses harder with his tongue. Aleks shudders and Edin thinks, for the first time, he should touch Aleks too, should have his hand on Aleks’ cock. He brings his hand down and runs it over Aleks’ cock. Aleks tears his mouth away. “Edin, Edin, no--” 

“No,” Edin says, “No, you too, want you with me.”

Aleks stills his hand on Edin’s cock and pulls back slightly. “Okay, okay,” he pants, “if you want.” He fumbles between them and pushes his shorts down. The he hauls Edin close and rubs hard against him dragging their cocks together.

“Oh, fuck, Aleks,” Edin gasps, “Oh, Aleks, please, please,” and Aleks kisses him, biting down hard on Edin’s lower lip and Edin comes. 

“Fuck, Edin,” Aleks says in Edin’s ear, “Fuck,” and shudders against Edin coming against Edin’s stomach. 

They lose their balance then, clattering into the lockers. Edin’s dazed from coming but still instinctively reaches up to put his hand behind Aleks head, just to keep it from hitting the locker. “Aleks, Aleks, are you--” 

Aleks just smiles “I’m fine, just fine, don’t worry Edin.” 

_Joe_

To be honest, when Joe had told Agüero he could do better, when Joe’d asked Agüero what else he had, this was not what he had expected to happen. Mind you, he’s not complaining (how could he?) he’s just surprised. He’d really never thought it’d lead here--to this--to Silva wrapped in Mario’s arms, his hand fisted in Agüero’s hair while Agüero just _worships_ Silva’s cock--just sucks it like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to do. It’s kind of one of the most incredible things Joe’s ever seen. 

Micah nudges Joe, startling Joe out of his dazed, open-mouthed staring. “Look what you started,” Micah says. 

“What?” Joe says dumbly, looking toward Micah, “Mics?” 

Micah rolls his eyes. “Bet you didn’t see that coming.” 

Joe looks back towards the show currently going on in the middle of the dressing room. He kind of forgets to answer Micah. Micah tugs at his elbow. “You,” Micah says, “you, I think, should sit down.” 

“Huh?” Joe says. Agüero’s just completely swallowed Silva’s cock, just, he’s got the whole thing in his mouth. Joe’s never seen anything like that. Certainly never had anything like that done to him. Silva’s a lucky fucking bastard. “What’s that?” 

“Sit down,” Micah says, “before you fall over.” Joe sits. Micah sits down next to him. “Christ,” Micah says, “look at that.” Joe’s looking all right. Silva’s just put Mario’s hand right on his cock. Joe shifts a bit, drags his hands up his thighs, he wonders if he could just-- 

Fuck it, Joe thinks, if Agüero can blow Silva in the middle of the fucking dressing room, he can do whatever the hell he wants. He goes to put his hand down his shorts, to just go for it, but Micah reaches out and grabs his wrist. “Mics,” he says, turning to glare at Micah, “what the hell?” 

Micah just stares at him for a moment then he drops Joe’s wrist and presses his hand against Joe’s crotch. “Let me, okay, Joe, just let me, all right?” 

“You,” Joe says, shocked, “you really want to?” 

Micah shrugs, “Yeah, sure, why not? Just this once.” 

“Okay,” Joe blurts, before Micah changes his mind, “sounds good.”


	6. Saturday 19 November 2011 | Barclays Premier League | Man City 3 - 1 Newcastle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe really wanted a clean sheet. His defenders try and make him feel better.

_Saturday 19 November 2011 | Barclays Premier League | Man City 3 - 1 Newcastle_

It’s stupid, isn’t it? Sitting here obsessing about the goal. They still won. 

The dressing room is bouncing. It’s full of excited banter and vibrant, bustling energy. Micah’s smile’s so wide it looks like his face is going to split wide open.

All Joe really sees, though, is the ball hurtling past him into the net. He sees it over and over again--sees it fly right past him smashing his clean sheet to bits. He’d wanted that clean sheet. Not as badly as he’d wanted to win but close. He’d pushed his face into the pitch afterwards. Screamed his frustration into the grass. For a horrible second, he’d wanted to stay there, his mouth full of grass and dirt, and just wallow in his all-consuming anger and disappointment. He’d pushed himself up. Gotten back onto his feet. At the end of the game, though, he couldn’t find the excitement of victory. All he’d been able to summon was the memory of dirt and grass against his mouth. 

Vinnie sits down next to Joe. Joe shifts away because whatever comforting, captain-like thing Vinnie’s going to say Joe doesn’t want to hear it. At first, Vinnie doesn’t say anything. Joe leans forward. He braces his arms on his knees and stares down at the floor. Joe waits for Vinnie to tell him it’s okay--to tell him that they still won. Joe prepares himself to agree--prepares himself to lie. 

“Next time,” Vinnie says, “will be different. Next time we’ll get it.” There’s no kindness or comfort in Vinnie’s voice. Just the low, hard surety of a promise he intends to keep. He puts his hand on Joe’s knee and squeezes. “Next time.” Joe just nods. 

Someone comes up in front of Joe. It’s Joleon. Joe recognizes his boots. “Come on then,” Joleon says, roughly grabbing Joe’s chin and forcing Joe’s head up, “Chin up, like Vinnie said, mate, next time.” He pats Joe’s cheek. “Right, Clichy?” He turns away from Joe and reaches out to catch Clichy’s wrist as Clichy passes by. Joleon tugs Clichy closer. “Tell him.” 

Clichy reaches out and puts his hand on Joe’s shoulder. “Yes,” he says, “next time. Next time will be different.” His accent softens the edges of his words but the resolve on his face is just as hard--just as sure--as the promise in Vinnie’s voice. He squeezes Joe’s shoulder. His grip is really too tight almost to the point of pain. Joe would rather that, though, than a consoling pat on the shoulder. 

Micah clatters into them forcing his way in between Joleon and Clichy. He slings an arm around each of them and says, “What’s all this then?” He’s still smiling. His joy writ large all over his face. 

Joe looks up at Micah for a moment. He’s not sure that Micah will really understand. For all that Micah’s a defender, sometimes Joe thinks that Micah’s happier going forward than he is staying back to defend. “It’s nothing Mics,” Joe says, “Really, it’s nothing.” 

Micah’s expression flattens and his smile takes on a hard, glittery edge. He reaches out and ruffles Joe’s hair. “Next time, eh lad?” Then he smacks Joe’s cheek and adds, his smile joyous again, “Now smile you miserable git. We won and I, I scored a fucking amazing goal, didn’t I?” Joe can’t help it. He smiles. 

Joleon gives Micah a shove and says, “Listen to this one, eh? Before you know it he’ll be leaving us behind and running off to become a striker or some shit.” 

Micah just smiles wider. “Nah, I’m a defender aren’t I? Got to stay back there,” he says, reaching out to ruffle Joe’s hair again, “and keep this one out of trouble, don’t I?” 

Joe reaches up to slap at Micah’s hand. “Think it’s the other way ‘round, isn’t it?” 

Micah smacks him back. “No, pretty sure I’m right. Eh, lads, we’re definitely the ones keeping this one out of trouble, aren’t we?” 

Of course, like the great bastards that they all are, every last one of them nods and says, “Yes.” 

Joe glares up at them and says, “I hate you all.” 

Vinnie squeezes Joe’s knee and says, “Sure you do.” 

Joe glances sideways at Vinnie and says, “I really, really do.” Vinnie just laughs. 

Joleon cuffs the side of Joe’s head and says, “I hate you too, Harty,” before moving away. Clichy squeezes Joe’s shoulder one more time and follows Joleon. 

Micah ruffles Joe’s hair. “Don’t lie, you love us.” Joe tries to glare at him but it ends up as more of a smile than anything else. “See?” Micah says then he spins away to chase after Nigel. 

Joe leans in and bumps his shoulder against Vinnie’s. “Thanks.” 

Vinnie just pats Joe’s knee. “Next time, okay?” 

Joe nods. “Yeah, next time.”


	7. Tuesday 29 November 2011 | Carling Cup | Arsenal 0 - 1 Man City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samir doesn't really want anyone around but Owen won't go away.

_Tuesday 29 November 2011 | Carling Cup | Arsenal 0 - 1 Man City_

At first Samir thinks the showers are empty and he almost--almost--lets himself start to relax. Then Samir hears the distinctive sound of water striking tile. He looks towards the noise. Hargreaves is standing under the shower in the far corner. Hargreaves has his back to Samir--both hands braced against the wall--and he’s just standing under the shower. He doesn’t react at all to Samir’s presence and that’s fine with Samir. The last thing Samir wants right now is _people_. 

Samir picks the shower that’s farthest from Hargreaves, turns the water to the hottest setting, and steps under the spray. He tips his head back, closes his eyes, and lets the burningly hot water pound down on his face. He opens his mouth. Breathes. In and out. Tries to find some calm. To empty his mind. He waits for the water to wash away the game--to wash away the sound of the crowd. He’d spent the game telling himself that it’s nothing-- _nothing_ \--and it had exhausted him. Because maybe it isn’t nothing--maybe it’s everything and he can still hear it echoing--banging away--in his ears. And then Emmanuel--

Samir doesn’t want to think about Emmanuel. So he tries and tries--breathes and breathes--but there’s no calm just water in his mouth. The taste of it is metallic and sharp on his tongue. 

The shower isn’t helping the way Samir had hoped it would. It’s just giving him time to think. To dwell. He drops his head and lets the water pour over his neck and down his back. He clenches his hands into fists. He digs his nails into his palms as hard as he can. The flair of pain does what the water can’t. It distracts him but it’s there and then it’s gone. It’s not _enough_. It can’t be sustained. Samir needs something more. He digs his nails in again but the pain is duller this time just barely a distraction. He can’t--

Samir turns and drives the flat of his fists against the wall. The pain is immediate and deliciously stinging. It vibrates up his arms and through his chest. It clears everything away. Blanks his mind. It lasts longer than the other but soon enough it’s gone. 

“That’s--” Hargreaves says. The sound of his voice is an unwelcome intrusion. “--not going to help.” Samir flattens his hands against the tile and ignores Hargreaves. “Trust me.”

Trust isn’t something Samir’s good at. He barely trusts himself. Not anymore. Not like he used to. He does it again just slams his hands against the tiles and loses himself, just for second, in the sharp, stinging pain that reverberates from his hands all the way up his arms. 

“Hey,” Hargreaves says. He sounds close by. He puts his hand on Samir’s back. It’s the lightest of touches but it makes Samir flinch. Hargreaves leaves his hand where it is and says, “Nasri, you need to calm down.” Samir doesn’t want to be touched. He doesn’t want Hargreaves and his soft, well-meaning platitudes anywhere near him. He just _wants_ \--

Samir whirls around. He swings wildly at Hargreaves, maybe to hit him (he just wants to hit someone-- _Emmanuel_ ), maybe just to push him. He wants Hargreaves _away_. Hargreaves grabs Samir’s wrists and shoves Samir back into the wall. “Is that what you want? What you need?” Hargreaves asks, “Really?” 

“And if it is?” Samir snaps. Hargreaves is still for a moment then he shrugs. Samir stares at Hargreaves--at his wide, dark eyes and his blank, passive expression. Samir wants to claw and scratch at Hargreaves--to tear Hargreaves’ passivity wide open and find out if there’s anything else hidden underneath. Samir conjures up the scorn of the crowd ( _stand up if you hate Nasri_ )--the scorn that rings and itches in his ears--and flings it at Hargreaves. “You are just going to let me hit you? Really?” Samir waits for Hargreaves to flinch. 

Hargreaves doesn’t even blink. 

“Maybe,” Hargreaves says slowly and pushes closer, “it’s something else you need.” For the first time, Samir’s acutely conscious of the heavy press of Hargreaves’ body against his--of the heat of Hargreaves‘ naked skin against his own. Samir steps back--or tries--his heel strikes the wall hard. There’s nowhere for him to go. Samir’s trapped, cool, smooth tile at his back, Hargreaves pressed against his front, his hands wrapped tightly around Samir’s wrists. Samir can’t stand to be trapped. He needs to be able to _move_. 

Samir shifts, testing Hargreaves’ grip, Hargreaves holds fast. They rub against each other, wet skin against wet skin, and, for a moment, Samir wants to press still closer. It’s alluring--the thought of losing himself in the distracting slide of skin on skin.

But Samir’s still trapped and he can’t bear it. He wants _out_. He shifts and squirms trying in earnest to break Hargreaves’ hold. Hargreaves squeezes Samir’s wrists tighter and says, “Well, Nasri?” His tone is as flatly empty as the expression on his face. 

Samir slams himself forward as hard as he can and wrenches his wrists out of Hargreaves’ hands. “I don’t--” He pushes wildly at Hargreaves’ chest. His hands slip and slide over Hargreaves still wet skin. “--I can’t--” He pushes and pushes but Hargreaves pushes back and Samir’s still trapped. He fights harder--more frantically-- he catches Hargreaves on the chin with the back of his hand. He’s viciously satisfied when he hears Hargreaves’ teeth clatter together. 

Hargreaves grabs Samir’s wrists and pins Samir’s wrist above Samir’s head. Samir keeps fighting--keeps pushing back against Hargreaves--but Hargreaves won’t be moved. “Hold still,” Hargreaves says, “Nasri-- _Samir_ , you’re going to hurt yourself.” 

“Just let me go,” Samir snaps. Hargreaves immediately steps back. Without Hargreaves holding him up, Samir slips on the tiles and almost loses his balance. Hargreaves steps forward his hand outstretched. “No,” Samir says harshly, “No. Don’t.” 

Hargreaves drops his hand. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, “I’ll just--” He turns like he’s going to leave and Samir should be glad because all he really wanted was for Hargreaves to just _go_ but if Hargreaves goes--if he just leaves--Samir will be alone with the echoes of unrelenting hate that still ring in his ears. The ones Samir can’t drown out no matter what he does. 

“Don’t,” Samir says before he can think, “Don’t go.” 

Hargreaves turns back. “Why not?” 

“I--” Samir doesn’t know what to say. Hargreaves steps closer. “--I--” Hargreaves takes another step forward. “I need--” 

Hargreaves interrupts, “What?” 

“You said--” Samir starts to say. He stops. Hargreaves steps still closer. 

“I did,” Hargreaves says, “and I meant it.” 

“You did?’ Samir hates the question in his voice--hates it almost as much as the desperation that made him call Hargreaves back. 

Hargreaves puts his hand on Samir’s shoulder. “I did.” 

“Okay,” Samir says. Hargreaves slides his hand up Samir’s throat. He digs his thumb in hard just above Samir’s collarbone and it _hurts_ so perfectly. “Oh,” Samir gasps, surprised, “oh.” Hargreaves does it again harder this time. There’s a flash of something in his eyes--a glimmer of something unspeakably shattered. 

“It’s okay,” Hargreaves says, gentling his grip, “It’s all going to be okay.” Hargreaves’ tone is soft and comforting. Samir hates it. It isn’t Hargreaves’ comfort that he wants. Samir wants the perfect pain from a moment ago. It drives out everything else. That’s what he wants--what he _needs_. 

Samir leans in and bites at Hargreaves’ jaw just under his ear. He licks at Hargreaves’ skin. He tastes of water. Samir sets his teeth against Hargreaves’ throat and bites down. “Don’t,” he says against Hargreaves’ skin, “don’t talk, just--just--” He scrapes his teeth down the line of Hargreaves’ throat. “--just this.” 

Hargreaves digs his fingers into Samir’s shoulder. He catches Samir’s chin with his other hand and forces Samir’s head up. He holds Samir’s jaw firmly, almost too firmly, and, for a moment, he just stares. Samir waits. Hargreaves tugs on Samir’s jaw. “Open your mouth.” 

Samir opens his mouth and Hargreaves pushes with both hands. Hargreaves’ hand slips off of Samir’s jaw and caches Samir hard, right in the throat, and, for just a second, Samir can’t breathe. Samir clatters back into the wall. His head bounces painfully off the tiles, but he doesn’t care because that’s when Hargreaves kisses him. The kiss is all teeth and heat. It’s so fast--so hard---that Samir can’t even kiss Hargreaves back. Samir barely wants to. He just wants to let Hargreaves bite and suck and lick until Hargreaves’ mouth against Samir’s is all that Samir knows. 

Samir scrambles his hands between them. He grabs at Hargreaves’ shoulders, tries to pull him closer. They can’t get closer. They’re pressed tightly together, skin to skin, mouth to mouth, but it’s not enough. Samir claws at Hargreaves--digs his nails into Hargreaves skin. 

Hargreaves pulls back--just for a moment--and Samir keens. Hargreaves can’t leave--can’t stop. Hargreaves bites at Samir’s lower lip. It’s hard enough to sting but not hard enough for blood. Samir wants blood ( _his, Hargreaves’, Emmanuel’s, it doesn’t matter anymore_ ). He wants Hargreaves back pressed warm and close against him. He wants it-- _needs it_ \--to drive everything else away. “Hush,” Hargreaves murmurs against Samir’s mouth as he wraps his hand around Samir’s cock, “hush.” 

Hargreaves’ hand is hot and, despite the shower, too dry. It shouldn’t feel good on Samir’s cock but it does. It’s all heat and friction and too, too much sensation but it’s perfect. Hargreaves kisses Samir again more slowly this time. Samir bites at Hargreaves’ mouth until Hargreaves kisses Samir like he had before--until Hargreaves mouth on Samir’s is as relentless and as fast as his hand is on Samir’s cock. 

Samir gets his blood. The taste of it is coopery, bright on his tongue. It’s his. There’s a sharp burst of pain as his lip splits and bleeds. Hargreaves pulls back. Samir’s blood is smeared on his mouth. Hargreaves starts to speak but Samir pulls at Hargreaves’ shoulders. “No,” Samir says because he doesn’t want to hear Hargreaves ask if he’s okay. He doesn’t want anything to interrupt this wild, perfect whirl of sensation. Because it’s not going to last and when it’s over-- 

Samir’s not ready for that. He’s not ready for the things he’s hiding from. “No, _please._ ” Hargreaves licks at the split in Samir’s lip--presses at it with his tongue. It’s a sore, aching kind of pain. Samir gasps, “ _Please, please,_ ” and Hargreaves kisses him. 

It doesn’t last much longer. 

Samir comes with blood in his mouth and Hargreaves’ teeth against his throat. Samir closes his eyes. For a moment, everything’s perfect. There’s nothing but white-hot sensation edged with pain. Then it’s over and everything else-- _reality_ \--crashes back into the empty place where pleasure had just been. 

Hargreaves steps back. The water, Samir notes absently, is still running. It’s gone cold and, without Hargreaves’ warmth, Samir shivers. Samir doesn’t open his eyes. He can hear the wet slap of Hargreaves feet against the tiles as he walks away. 

Samir leans back against the tiles and breathes. In and out. He runs his tongue over his torn lower lip. It stings but the flash of pain isn’t enough to get him back to that place he just was where nothing mattered except sensation. He bites down harder trying to get back there but he _can’t_. 

Samir stops trying. He just _stops_. He takes a deep breath and he’s just about to open his eyes when Hargreaves says softly, “Here.” Samir opens his eyes. Hargreaves is back. Samir hadn’t expected that. Hargreaves holds out a towel. “Here,” he says again, “come and dry yourself off.” Hargreaves reaches over and turn off the shower.

Samir pushes off the wall. He takes the towel. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Hargreaves says with solemn seriousness, “anytime.” Samir just nods. He rubs the towel hard over his face. He buries his face in the towel and doesn’t look up until Hargreaves walks away again. This time Hargreaves doesn’t come back.

It should make Samir happy. He’s finally alone. 

It doesn’t.


	8. Wednesday 11 January 2012 | Carling Cup | Man City 0 - 1 Liverpool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A goalkeeper and his captain and a little bit of comfort.

_Wednesday 11 January 2012 | Carling Cup | Man City 0 - 1 Liverpool_

 

When Vincent finally reaches the dressing room, Joe’s the only one left. He’s sitting, more like slumping, in front of his locker and staring down at the floor. He’s still dressed for the game even still has on one of his gloves. He doesn’t look up at the sound of the door closing behind Vincent. 

Vincent watches him for a moment then he makes his way across the room to stand in front of him. “Joe.” 

“Hey Vinnie.” He doesn’t look up. 

“Joe, what are--”

“Just thinking,” Joe interrupts, looking up, “if--” He stops abruptly. _If I’d just gone down faster, if I’d just stretched out my arm that much farther, if only you’d been there._ He doesn’t actually have to say any of it for Vincent to hear it. He knows how Joe thinks--knows Joe. 

He reaches out and puts his hand on Joe’s shoulder. “It’s over,” he says, for himself as much as Joe, “done.” 

“Yeah,” Joe says, “done.” He stares sharply at Vincent for a moment. He stares back facing the accusation in Joe’s stare head on. “Yeah, okay,” Joe says softly and drops his head back down.

Vincent pats his shoulder. “Go. Shower. Clean yourself up.”

“Is that an order, captain?” Joe asks with a trace of his usual high sprits but he doesn’t look up. 

Vincent cuffs the side of his head. “Yes. Go.” 

“Okay,” he says, “I’ll get right on that,” but he doesn’t make any move to get up. 

Vincent waits a moment. Joe still doesn’t move. He reaches down and wraps his hand around Joe’s wrist. “I meant,” he says, pulling Joe’s arm up and undoing the fastening of his glove, “now.” Joe looks up. He doesn’t try to tug his arm out of Vincent’s grasp. He just watches him--lets him pull the glove off. He tosses it onto the bench next to Joe. He keeps Joe’s arm in his grasp. Joe makes no move to tug it away. 

Vincent stares down at Joe’s hand. It’s all taped up. He pulls the tape off of Joe’s wrist and drops it on the floor. Then he methodically does his fingers one at a time throwing the tape to the floor. When he’s done, he drops Joe’s hand and says, “Okay. Now go on then.” 

Joe doesn’t move. He’s still staring at Vincent. He holds out his other hand. It’s all taped up. “Give me a hand,” he says, “would you?” Vincent starts pulling off the tape. 

“Thanks,” Joe says softly.


	9. Sunday 22 January 2012 | Barclays Premier League | Man City 3 - 2 Spurs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not strictly speaking post match but it was inspired by Samir Nasri's post match interview.

_Sunday 22 January 2012 | Barclays Premier League | Man City 3 - 2 Spurs_

It takes Samir some time to start calling him David. When Cesc talked about him (and he had from time to time), he’d always called him Silva. Then Samir comes to City and it’s always David. That’s all anyone calls him.

The first time he tries it, he stumbles over it. He starts to say Silva then changes his mind halfway through and ends up stuttering out some strange mix of the two. Silva smiles at him, more with his eyes than with his mouth, and says, “David, you call me this, is okay. I like--” He pauses. He leans closer and lightly touches the outside of Samir’s wrist. “-- it if you--” He taps the back of Samir’s hand. “Okay?”

“David,” Samir says. He doesn’t stumble. 

Silva smiles. He looks a whole new person when he smiles. “Samir,” he says. It sounds odd with his accent almost like it sounds when Cesc says it but not quite. It might be the first time Silva’s said it--the first time he’s called Samir by his first name. He can’t be sure.

Silva reaches out and tugs on the bottom of Samir’s shirt. “Come. You stretch with me.” He tangles Samir’s shirt in his hand and doesn’t let go. 

“Okay,” Samir says then adds, just because he can, “David.” 

Silva laughs. It’s not funny--not really--but Samir doesn’t care. Silva pulls hard on his shirt. “We go. Come,” he says. Samir laughs and lets him pull him across the field.


End file.
